


the end, the beginning

by heebiejeebies



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, M/M, Mentions of Injuries, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 07:54:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heebiejeebies/pseuds/heebiejeebies
Summary: "...the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it." - Snow and Dirty Rain, Richard SikenHannibal wakes up after the fall.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 18
Kudos: 183





	the end, the beginning

The initial time following their plunge into the Atlantic is a fog in Hannibal’s mind. He drifts in fevered dreams and lives only in disjointed, brief moments of consciousness. Impressions that etch themselves into his memory. The taste of blood and saltwater in his mouth. A bright light angled overhead. Heat and pain pulsating from his abdomen. A slim face hardened with concern. Sheets and a mattress and a room that rocked back and forth.

A body, still but warm against his side.

Hannibal comes back to himself eventually. It’s a slow awakening; those first few moments of complete consciousness feeling like a rebirth in their own.

His surroundings are unfamiliar. He’s in a bedroom, no doubt, paneled with wood. Low ceiling. One small window above the bed in which he is currently occupying, where gentle light is filtering in. He notes a narrow set of carpeted stairs directly outside the open door, and the ever-present smell of saltwater, though much less overwhelming than before. He is no longer drowning in it. In fact, he’s quite warm tucked underneath a heavy quilt, and his mouth is unbelievably dry.

“You’re awake.”

Hannibal turns to the voice, and his tired, overworked heart lurches behind the wall of his chest as the rest of his memories come rushing back.

Will — _his_ Will — stands in the open doorway of an attached bathroom. Steam rolls out behind him, smelling of soapy, artificial coconut. His t-shirt is damp around the shoulders where his hair is still dripping wet, and the right side of his face is taped with a crisp, white bandage. Hannibal, in all his lifetime, is sure he’s never been witness to a more beautiful creature.

“I’m awake,” he replies simply, his voice nothing more than a weak rasp.

Will takes a short moment to retreat into the bathroom. He comes back with a paper cup filled with cold water.

Hannibal shifts to sit up in bed and is immediately stopped by a sharp pain twisting up his side. He chokes on a gasp, and then Will is there with a hand on his shoulder. Hannibal spares a brief second to notice that he is shirtless and bandaged on the right side of his abdomen, and another second to feel frustration at his delayed senses. If his disorienting amount of sleep hadn’t dulled his usually quick mind, he is sure there must be various medications currently slowing down his system.

“Easy,” Will says, gentling Hannibal back against the pillows. “You probably cracked some ribs.”

He hands over the water, which Hannibal carefully tips back and drinks in one go. It is a much-needed balm against his harsh throat.

“More?” Will asks when Hannibal finishes off the cup.

“Please.”

This time, instead of stepping back into the attached bathroom, Will leaves to ascend the stairs. There is the distant sound of glassware clinking, followed by a tap running, and he returns with a larger glass of ice water, which Hannibal takes gratefully.

Will’s movements are stiff as he lowers himself next to Hannibal on the other side of the bed. Hannibal can see the tight clench of his jaw and notes that there must be an additional bandage on Will’s right shoulder, underneath his shirt, where a short knife had dug through tissue and muscle. The same shoulder Chiyoh had shot him in outside the Uffizi, three years prior.

Speaking of.

“I assume we did not arrive here without a fair deal of help,” Hannibal says, setting his glass aside on the nightstand after a few more swallows.

Will closes his eyes and lets out a heavy sigh when he’s settled against the headboard. It is admittedly difficult to get a true read on him. To ascertain his headspace, his thoughts, his next actions, as Hannibal is wont to do. More than anything, Will simply looks tired.

“It’s not assuming when you already know,” he murmurs.

Hannibal concedes with a hum of acknowledgement.

Of course, unknown to Will at the time, there had been stairs only a short walk from the house on the bluff that lead down to a small stretch of shoreline. Rickety old stairs; the aged wood slick and damp from years weathering the face of the sea. It would have been a careful journey downwards, especially while injured, but it would have served well enough for an escape. Because there had also been Chiyoh, with a ship anchored further out in the bay and a dinghy at the ready.

In his life of murder and evasion, Hannibal had always been meticulous in his preparedness.

“She is certainly a resourceful one,” Hannibal comments, mildly amused at the image of a fierce, angered Chiyoh with Will at her mercy during Hannibal’s time spent unconscious.

The corner of Will’s mouth twitches. “Can’t argue with that,” he says dryly.

The two of them sit there for a while longer, unspeaking. It is not an uncomfortable silence. Hannibal is fairly confident now, both indisposed and sharing the same bed, that he and Will are past those trivial discomforts; the need to fill the space between them with words. They’ve always been so much more, in each other’s company.

Rather, Hannibal takes the opportunity to further assess himself and his surroundings.

Most of his pain is concentrated to his torso. The bullet wound, of course, and most definitely some cracked ribs. Likely a good deal of bruising. All the evidence pointing towards him taking the brunt of the impact when they’d tumbled over the cliff and hit the water. However, the pain is dulled in the back of Hannibal’s awareness; as long as he sits still, at least. Undoubtedly the doing of some strong medication.

Hannibal cannot smell any traces of infection on himself or Will, thankfully. But he is intensely and unfortunately aware of the scent of old sweat and dried salt on his own skin. His hair is dirty and unwashed against his forehead, and even after drinking the glass of water, his mouth tastes hot and unpleasant.

Hannibal doesn’t get a chance to voice his following question. Will answers.

“It’s been three days,” he says, finally opening his eyes to look over at Hannibal. His gaze is unwavering. Far removed from the fleeting, awkward disposition Will had worn when they’d first met. “Chiyoh had to dock near Reedville to tend to us.”

Hannibal nods, taking in the information with careful consideration.

They’re not far from Hannibal’s cliffside house, which has likely been discovered and scraped clean by the FBI by now, along with three sources of blood and only one corpse. And surely, without proof of his and Will’s demise, Jack Crawford wouldn’t allow anything less than a manhunt across the whole Eastern United States. Each moment spent lingering at the edge of the Chesapeake Bay, quietly tucked away in the hull of a boat, is a moment too long.

Their departure is imminent. Necessary.

But therein the question lies: is it really going to be _their_ departure?

Slaying the dragon had been nothing short of a religious experience. An apotheosis. A consummation of _them_ , Hannibal and Will, and the violence that lived in each of their cores. They had moved, bled, and _killed_ as one. The dragon was brought to his knees and the puzzle piece fell into place. The teacup came together, jagged and beautiful.

But caution remained, hanging ugly and irresolute in Hannibal’s mind. He’d spent years wanting Will, deeply and painfully. So much so that the possibility of true companionship felt almost like cruel dream. One where Hannibal is lead to divine bliss, only to have the floor crumble beneath his feet and wretch him away.

Hannibal swallows back the emotions that threaten to climb up his throat, lets his head tip further back against the pillows. Vulnerable. The soft skin of his neck exposed. He doesn’t meet Will’s eyes.

“Will you go home?” he asks simply, keeping his tone steady despite the harsh sting making itself known in his chest.

They both know it’s not what Hannibal wants. They both know he is in no state to stop Will, if he chooses to leave.

It would be another cruelty in their shared story. Another heartbreak. They are no strangers to wounding one another. Will _sees_ Hannibal, and with that, he knows how to twist the knife just so.

But Will doesn’t twist.

“No,” he replies. “No, I’m not going home.”

The sting in Hannibal’s chest eases.

Will ponders a moment before continuing, his words carefully picked. “When I threw us over the cliff, I was… tired of running from you, Hannibal. Tired of running from myself. After we killed Dolarhyde, there was no going back for me.”

_Us. We._ Hannibal drinks it in. Tastes the words on his tongue like the finest wine.

“And so you left the rest up to the Atlantic,” he says softly.

“I’m not sorry for what I did,” Will grits out, though his defense is entirely unnecessary.

_“Will,”_ Hannibal breathes, finding his own eyes damp when he opens them. He gazes over at Will and feels reverent. “I would never desire an apology for what you did. You were exquisite in your becoming, from start to finish. I would not dare deny you your end.”

Will lets out a breath, clearly shaken by Hannibal’s words. The hard edges of his face soften, slightly. His eyes are big and blue. “You knew I would try to kill us, if we survived.” It is not a question.

“I knew it was a possibility.”

“And you didn’t stop me.”

Hannibal aches to smooth away the crease between Will’s brows. He wants to open his own chest, peel back skin and crack ribs to lay his beating heart bare, to let Will _know_ in a way that words could only wish to convey.

“Life or death, I would have gladly accepted either, as long as it was by your hand.”

And it is the truest thing Hannibal knows, deep to his core. He had made an effort to not dwell on the many possible ways he may one day die, despite having faced the prospect a fair few times throughout his years. And yet, he could imagine no ending more perfect, more _right_ than one covered in blood under the light of the moon, holding Will Graham in his arms.

But here, now, Will Graham looks at Hannibal with an open, bleeding tenderness. He reaches out and clasps Hannibal’s hand where it lies on top of the quilt. Skin against skin. A gentle squeeze. Wholly alive.

Hannibal lets his eyes fall closed once more. He hears arias. He feels light in his chest.


End file.
